


tinman philosophies

by izabellwit



Category: RWBY
Genre: Anger, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Confrontations, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Volume 7 (RWBY), Speculation, Spoilers: Volume 7 (RWBY), Volume 7 (RWBY), ironwood confrontation 2.0, now with more oz!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23042692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izabellwit/pseuds/izabellwit
Summary: Lost in the streets of Atlas, hunted by the Grimm, Oscar and Oz run into Ironwood.(or: in which Oz is Angry, Oscar is determined, and Ironwood continues to make bad life choices. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.)
Relationships: James Ironwood & Oscar Pine, James Ironwood & Ozpin, Ozpin & Oscar Pine
Comments: 20
Kudos: 273





	tinman philosophies

**Author's Note:**

> I already wrote a small Ironwood confrontation scene in a previous fic, but I really wanted to try my hand at a longer one. I was curious to explore how a reunion between Oz and Ironwood would go, given all that's happened. I'm sure the show will do one much better, but for now... ta-daaaaa!
> 
> That said, writing Ironwood? Horrendous. It has nothing to do with his character, I mean this in general. He is SO HARD for me to write. I can handle Ironwood only in small doses, apparently. Go figure.
> 
> Also, warning-- there is a brief moment of body dysphoria within the fic. It isn't very long--just a mention of unease, and why--but just a head's up!

In the grips of invasion and evacuation, Atlas is a city of empty towers and emptier streets. The buildings rise tall and silver and shining, all the lights gone out and the doors locked tight, windows shuttered shut. It’s a ghost town of silver towers, and every sound echoes— every thud of their footsteps turned two-fold, every screech of the Grimm like screaming. 

_Oscar, to your left!_

Oz’s shout comes with only a second to spare—at the last moment Oscar’s grip changes hands and the boy launches himself back, just barely missing being mauled by the teeth of the hulking gorilla-like winged Grimm circling around him. He finds his footing and sets his feet; the next time the Grimm lunges, Oscar is ready, and slams the cane into the Grimm’s throat with such viciousness the beast dissolves at once.

Oz, watching and wary, bites back an instinctual plea to switch places—the boy is fighting his own battles and is doing _fine,_ and to ignore that would be a disservice to him—and says, instead, _We are too enclosed here. We need to move._

Oscar inhales sharply, but begins retreating back further down the street. “But, the others—!”

If Oz were in control, this would be where their lips would thin. The others, indeed. Oscar is right to be worried. The timing is—horrific. Salem is attacking the city, these new Grimm are _everywhere,_ and now this: Oz and Oscar lost in the streets, forcibly herded away from the others by the Grimm, driven back farther and farther from their allies. 

It is an effective tactic for supposedly mindless Grimm, and a sickeningly familiar one. Salem. It must be. He doesn’t know if the Grimm are attempting it with everyone or if she has already, somehow, found Oz again—a thought that makes his very soul flicker with horror and remembered pain. The end result is still the same. They are lost here in the abandoned streets of Atlas, utterly surrounded and utterly alone.

Well, not _entirely_ alone. High above, the Atlas military swarms, concerned with its own Grimm issues. Not that it would matter if they weren’t. In this moment, the Atlas military and their cloying presence is a hindrance instead of a help. Enemies on both sides, and if they aren’t careful, they’ll be caught right in the middle of the crossfire.

And so.

 _There is nothing we can do,_ Oz says, reluctant. _Oscar, we_ **_need_ ** _to go._

As if on cue, one of the Grimm swipes down again, wings flaring—Oscar spins out of the way with a sharp cry of frustration and a low sweep with the cane. 

“I am so sick of getting lost!” he cries, and then he turns on his heel and sprints for it.

Despite absolutely everything, that comment almost makes Oz laugh. _This does seem to be becoming a habit with you, doesn’t it?_

“Not on purpose!” the boy hisses back, and nearly trips in his haste in rounding the corner. A howl makes the both of them glance back; the beasts are following, the streets tearing up under the wicked claws. Oscar swallows hard. “Any ideas?”

 _Hm._ Oz peers through Oscar's eyes, and their vision catches on a narrow alleyway. _Hide._

Oscar casts a quick glance back, and his lips thin, grim. He turns sharply, shoulder scraping the wall in his haste, and slips in a narrow way between the buildings, back pressed hard against the smooth metal. Scraping and screaming echoes behind them; the Grimm, desperate to follow, raging at their backs. Oz reaches out. _The cane—_

“What?”

_There’s too many to fight. We need to divert their attention. Our magic—_

“Oh,” Oscar breathes, and then blinks. “No, wait, this is the worst time for a magic lesson—”

_We are a little low on other options, Oscar—!_

There is a strange sensation, like tipping forward, a moment caught in time before Oz trips into control, the sudden sense of _being_ just about slapping him across the face. Feeling snaps into focus. He is—here, again. He is here. 

He breathes, and the cold air is shocking. “Oscar?”

_Worst time for a magic lesson, and you seem to have an idea, so—_

He catches the tail end of the thought, the plan, and exhales hard. “Right.” He brings up their hand and the Long Memory with it, green sparking at their fingertips. Lightning shocks down their hand through the cane, burning, bright—it shoots over the heads of the Grimm, brilliant like a firework, a flare of violent green. The howling turns away, momentarily diverted. Oz grips the cane close, waiting. The howls fade away. He keeps their breaths even, heart calm. The Grimm don’t come back. For now, at least.

Oz folds their hands over the knob of the cane and taps it firmly on the ground, pleased with how well that had worked. Magic is a lovely lure. Draining, but effective. Still. “As clever as that was,” he admits, mild, “please, Oscar, a little more warning next time.”

_Sorry. I panicked. And you already seemed to have an idea… why didn’t you just take control?_

“The situation was not quite that dire, yet, and I simply didn’t expect…” He knows Oscar dislikes losing control, and understands it; after everything that has happened, Oz is more reluctant than ever to take over unless absolutely necessary. And for all that the Grimm were worrisome, he has seen the boy handle far worse situations. “I wanted it to be your choice, I suppose.”

 _I mean, I appreciate that…_ Oscar almost seems to sigh, halfway exasperated, tone dry. _But seriously, the middle of running away is a really bad time for a magic lesson. Just saying._

Oz manages a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He moves back. “And, if you don’t mind—”

Oscar catches the trail end of the question and hums. He seems thoughtful, but not against it, and Oz relaxes. _Sure. I need a moment to think, anyway. Though…_ There is an itch behind their eyes, Oscar peering through, wincing at the alley. _Can we find a new hiding place?_

“Certainly,” Oz says, and slips back further in the alley, keeping control as Oscar drifts back to consider their options. Oscar is right— as it is their hiding place is too enclosed, and though Oscar is small, if they get cornered here they won’t be able to fight at all. Even for Oscar, small for his age and slight besides, the alley is stifling. 

Oz ignores the whisper of unease that comes with that, the whisper that always rises when he takes control— _not mine, not right, too small, too—_ and watches the mouth of the alley instead, making sure the Grimm are fully diverted before slipping out into the other street-side. For a moment though, he almost stumbles; unaccustomed, for one awful instant of _wrong_ , with being so short. 

It is Oz’s own fault, in the end. The unease always comes with a new body, with every form that is not his own. It is a sense he will likely never escape—and in truth, Oz no longer knows what it is he’s even looking for. Who is the self that he is instinctively reaching towards? Ozma, the first? Ozpin, the last? He has been so many people, worn so many faces, that he no longer knows himself.

It is worse than usual, though; the months of being locked away have made being in control and being _Oscar_ brand-new all over again, and Oscar’s panic and the looming presence of Salem are not helping matters. For a moment their hands fumble with the cane, and their steps falter; in his stress and familiarity with the city, Oz expects to be taller and is thrown off by the warped perspective. Their shoulder knocks against a wall. It is— _distinctly_ unlike him. Oz is frustrated purely on principle. 

Oscar must sense something, unfortunately, because the boy’s attention is at once fixed on him. … _Are you—_

“Fine,” Oz murmurs, ignoring him, and steadies himself. He grips the cane tight, glancing up and down the street. There is no sign of the others. He bites back a sigh and closes their eyes, rubbing at the bridge of their nose, briefly and intensely missing his glasses. Right then. Now, for Miss Rose and the others, where would they…? 

_The Academy? That is where the plan is taking place._

Ah, yes. The plan. Roughshod as it is. Oz can’t help but wince at the reminder. For all that he’s agreed to follow Miss Rose’s lead, he can’t help but despair a little. Haphazard ideas full of chaotic mayhem and the luck of the draw—this is what he has resigned himself to. He supposes he’ll have to get used to it, though Oz is loathe to admit he likes it.

Still. It is sort of strange, in a funny way, to be a part of the plan instead of the lone voice making them. A word of advice, rather than the deciding factor. He… can’t really remember the last time he did that.

Oz isn’t exactly sure if he _likes_ it, but, well. It’s certainly something new.

“Atlas Academy is a good place to start,” he agrees, and steps out fully into the street, surveying the sky, looking for the distinctive shadow of the school. “Still, getting up there without the others may be more trouble than you realize—”

“Hey!”

Oz snaps their mouth shut, breath catching in their throat. Oscar is suddenly still in the back of their mind. No. Wait. That cannot—

“Is someone out there?”

Oz snaps their head back, grip tight on the cane. For a moment he and Oscar are in complete agreement, the shock two-fold before it splits—Oscar, falling into dread; Oz, falling into an anger bitter with betrayal. Their fingers go white-knuckled on the cane. 

_What is he doing here?_ Oscar whispers, half-way between fearful and furious. _He should be in the Academy—or even Mantle, especially now, when Salem is—_ **_why_ ** _is he—_

Oz thins their lips and adjusts their grip on the cane. He is too aware of the empty street stretching out around them, and the emotion they both are fighting with—and already he can hear the returning howl of Grimm. He’s not one to cuss, but in this moment, he has to bite back a curse.

“Oscar,” he says instead. “Please, let me—let me handle this. I may be able to…”

He trails off, unsure, faltering. Oscar is a flicker through their soul. 

_I… are you sure?_

He can feel the boy’s hesitation, his reluctance. They have no time to waste; the others could be anywhere and very second delayed is a mark against them, because they have no seconds to spare. But they have both realized. The street is wide open, empty, gaping—unless they duck back into the alley, there is no avoiding this… and they cannot waste time hiding. They are already running behind.

“It is— at least worth a try.” He grimaces. “And if nothing else, as a distraction…” 

_…Alright._

“Thank you,” Oz says, quiet, and draws himself tall just in time to see James Ironwood turn the corner. 

He looks—different, Oz realizes, almost at once. He doesn’t know why this bothers him so. He knows how the fall of Beacon has struck its toll on James, has recalled the memories even if Oz wasn’t really _awake_ for those interactions personally. But for the first time he is seeing James clearly, and… he looks tired, Oz thinks. He looks drawn. His arm is still in a sling, and his eyes are lined heavy with exhaustion. 

James doesn’t see them right away, though he looks ready for a fight—gun drawn and aiming for any Grimm that might leap out, eyes sharp and expression focused. When he sees Oz, for a moment he doesn’t seem to realize what or who it is he is looking at. His gun dips, relief on his face—and then realization sinks in. 

His eyes widen. The gun lowers further. For a moment, James looks almost stricken. “ _...Impossible_.” 

Oscar almost seems to flinch. Oz keeps their grip tight on the cane. He watches the gun. 

James is still staring, but slowly, the shock fades—he steps closer, gun still drawn but lowering. He looks them up and down, meets their eyes briefly and then looks away. “I see,” James says, almost to himself. His lips thin into something almost a grimace. “Or… maybe not so impossible. I suppose that’s my own fault for underestimating you.” 

The words are not complimentary—they just are. Blank, impersonal, an observation. Oscar feels sick. Oz speaks, voice tight. “Yes,” he says. “That is one way of putting it, I suppose.”

James looks back at them, and at their words his expression hardens. He straightens, looking down at them, gun lowered to his side but still—noticeably—drawn. “Well. I assume you’re the one who sent up that flare?”

Oscar is a flicker of shock and dread realization. … _Flare?_

Oz closes their eyes, gritting their teeth hard. Gods. The magic. He should have known.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” James has straightened fully now; his composure regained, eyes hard. “Well.” He lifts up the gun, and trains it on their chest. “As it is. Drop the cane and stand down, Oscar, and maybe things can go differently this time around.”

Oz doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch at the threat. That James is threatening Oscar’s life again is not so much a surprise as it is bitter. Still— he is taken off-guard by the wrong name, and understanding strikes him and Oscar at the same time. 

_He doesn’t know._

And really. How could James know? He has only just learned of Oscar’s survival—Oz is another story entirely. Which means…

Oscar is all reluctance, but still, the boy leans in, not quite taking control but brushing the edges of it. _I—I can—_

“No,” Oz says, to Oscar and Ironwood both, and draws himself up. The benefits of keeping his identity hidden are many, but this road has already been walked—both of them already know that James— _Ironwood—_ has no patience for what Oscar has to say. And while in truth Oz is not much different, and in truth while it galls at him… if there is a chance his presence can change... _something,_ anything… then Oz has to try.

Oscar stills, an unwilling participant—recognizing the idea and disliking it as much as he is grateful for it, for the boy is not keen on facing Ironwood again—and slowly draws back, letting Oz take the lead on this. Ironwood narrows his eyes. Oz links their hands behind their back, the Long Memory heavy in their grip, and adds, “Not quite right, I’m afraid.”

He can say this for Ironwood—he has always been quick on the uptake. Ironwood’s eyes widen, just barely, his shock a flash-flicker on his face. The weapon lowers, just barely. “…Oz?”

Oz doesn’t move. “Would that I could say it is nice to see you again, but…” Oz smiles. It isn’t kind. “Well.” 

The gun dips further. Ironwood blinks fast. “You… you’re back.” He straightens. “You woke up? After all this time— why? _When?_ ”

Oz doesn’t answer. He feels very cold, suddenly, shock-still and frozen. He fixes Ironwood with an icy stare, and slowly the understanding blooms across Ironwood’s face. 

“…So that’s how you survived the fall. I see.”

“I’m not sure you do,” Oz observes, frigid. He is hyper-aware of the empty street at their back, the Grimm drawing ever closer to their location. His anger and Oscar’s dread—no doubt, in this moment they are practically a beacon for the Grimm, and the knowledge grits at their teeth. Oz will have to play this very carefully. 

For a moment, James looks tired. The dim lights of the city cast long shadows on his face. “Ah. You’re angry with me.”

“I do wonder why that is.” He is still holding the gun steady; Oz doesn’t dare move. The howls are growing closer. He tightens their grip on the Long Memory. Already, time is running short. He needs to buy time. He needs a chance to run. He needs—

He _needs_ to get them back with the group. And yet. He is frozen in place, unable to pull himself away. The whole sorry tale is a tragedy in motion, and still he cannot let it go. Frustration burns low in their chest. And Oz cannot stop himself from asking, just once, low and sharp and furious: “James. Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done?”

The brief moment of exhaustion falls away. Ironwood’s eyes harden, expression going tight with a building anger. The gun rises again, and this time his hand doesn’t shake. “I know exactly what I’m doing!” Ironwood snaps back. “I will say this one last time. Drop the cane and turn yourself in, and this can all go peacefully. I can and will use force if necessary.”

The howls of the Grimm are closing in. Oz is strangling his cane. “Peacefully,” he repeats. Something about that word sticks with him. It has been a long time since Oz was angry—a long time since he has felt a rage like this. Lionheart was one thing. Hazel another. This is something else entirely. “ _Peacefully?”_

The Grimm swoop down, screaming.

The conversation dies, Ironwood snapping away from Oz in an instant, gun firing like a shot. Oz doesn’t even flinch; the bullet flashes by their cheek and he can hear the Grimm’s howl cut off. Their hand spasms on the cane, and at the last second he turns, scowling, to strike the next one—his blow is vicious, sharp, and the moment that Grimm dies he throws himself at the next. 

There is no time now for anger, for all the heated and furious things clamoring behind their teeth; Oz bites back a snarl and takes this anger out on the Grimm, refusing to lose his head. The crack of his cane and the firing of the gun echoes down the empty streets; they fight not side by side but adjacent as the Grimm swoop down from above. They are too open, too exposed on this city street—there is no shelter here, and half-way through the battle Oz draws back from the Grimm and begins backing down the street. 

Ironwood realizes what he is doing almost at once. His expression darkens. “Don’t—”

Oz gives him a cold look, then turns and slips past the Grimm, down the street, already running.

“ _Oz!_ ”

Oscar’s voice is thin. He seems shaken. _He’s going to follow. I don’t know if we can lose him—_

“I know,” Oz mutters back, and turns down another street, already looking for their next exit. He can hear a gunshot, distant, and the screech of Grimm, dying off. “But at the very least, I am not going to _wait_ there for him to—” 

More gunshots. Closer this time. Oz hisses through their teeth, turning, readying his cane— he is prepared for a bullet, and so the handcuffs take him by surprise, wrapping around their wrists and cane both, the momentum of the swing slamming them against the ground. 

Ironwood steps up. His voice is cold. “I never took you for a coward.”

“Going for the non-lethal option now?” But inwardly Oz is furious. Sloppy. _Sloppy._ Just because he was waiting for the bullet doesn’t mean letting his guard down for everything else. 

Ironwood doesn’t even grace that with a reply, dragging them up by the arm, almost dangling them. For all that one arm is out of commission, Ironwood’s grip is steady.

“I don’t have time for your games, Ozpin. Where are the others?”

_Crap._

Oz is of a similar mind. So he’s realized, then. 

Ironwood continues, “Team RWBY and JNR—and Qrow, too. I suppose you were helping them with his breakout. I can’t imagine you got up onto Atlas alone.”

Oz keeps one hand tight on the Long Memory, ignoring the way the cuffs cut into their wrist. “You’d be surprised,” he says, simply. There is no humor in the words. Something about seeing Ironwood face-to-face has sparked something in him; a low burn of fury that blurs at the edges of his mind. Their chest feels very tight. “As much as you like to pretend otherwise, General, you simply _cannot_ know everything.” 

Ironwood’s expression flickers, caught off-guard, and then his eyes widen, livid with anger. His hand tightens in their coat, and he shakes them, for one dizzying moment actually lifting them off the ground. Oz _hates_ being small. This is giving him a headache.

“I know _more_ than enough!” Ironwood shouts, furious.

Anxiety knots in their chest. It’s not his. _Oz, we don’t have time for this!_

Oz breathes in deep, pushing past the anger. Oscar is right. He switches tactics, biting back the fury, trying to project a calm he can’t quite feel. There is a fragility here, a thread frayed and almost snapped. He keeps their voice low. “Please, understand me,” Oz tries. “I—we are not your _enemies,_ James. We want to save Atlas as much as you—”

Ironwood scoffs. “Oh, please.” The spell has broken; however much Ironwood might have been hearing before, he is utterly refusing to listen now. “You want to save Mantle.”

Oscar is a sudden flare of anger in the back of their mind, and Oz is fit to match. Their eyes narrow. “I was not aware those were two separate things,” he says, suddenly cold. “Salem—”

“None of you get it.” Ironwood turns away, dropping Oz back to the ground; Oz catches their feet and doesn’t stumble, not even when Ironwood starts to drag them by the arm down the street. Back to the airships, no doubt. Oz adjusts their grip on the cane. “Mantle is the _trap!_ It’s her way in. I have said this, again and again, and still, all of you insist on holding on to foolish ideals over _sense._ I am making the only choice I can—I am saving what can be saved.”

“Mantle is not _dead,_ ” Oz snaps back, and their fingers clench at the cane. He is hyper-aware of the streets stretching on behind them their backs, open paths and more narrow alleys. Oscar is small. He could make it, maybe— though whether it’s a path, or a dead-end, Oz doesn’t know. He gets the sickening sense he is going to have to risk it. 

But first he needs to get them away.

“James, listen to yourself. This isn’t—”

“And who are you to lecture me?” Ironwood pushes them back, letting go at last, whirling on them. His face is calm, his eyes set, burning with a low fury and a terrible sort of surety. His hand waves in the air, gestures as sharp as a blow. “You. Weren’t. Here. You don’t get to come in now after all is said and done, and try to tell _me_ what is right!”

“You’re quite right.” Oz watches him rant, hands white-knuckled on the cane. The cord of the handcuffs is strangling their wrists. “I was not here.” His voice darkens. “But you were not _alone_ , James. You had a team—your team—Miss Rose, Mister Arc, Qrow. You had others to turn to. Oscar—”

“I didn’t want _Oscar’s_ advice!”

“Well, you should have taken it!” Oz grips the Long Memory, temper finally frayed. His mind is awash in anger, two-fold and burning—his own horror, Oscar’s bitter disappointment. “Have you any idea how—how frustrating it is, to see a chance for a better future—a united Remnant—Mantle and Atlas come together… and then see it fall apart, utterly and completely, because the man in charge decided he couldn’t trust any word, any advice, any voice but his own?” 

_Oz—_

Oz shakes their head, stepping forward. “My advice would have _ruined_ this city,” he says, vicious and sure. “My advice would have played right into Salem’s hands. I can see that path so clearly it makes me sick.”

“I am _fighting—”_

“You are running.” Oz takes a breath, reigning himself in, eyes cold and voice hard. “And you are taking only what you feel is worth saving, and leaving all the rest to die.”

“Sacrifice is necessary,” Ironwood snaps back. “I thought you knew that. I will do what you won’t, Oz. I won’t fail as you did. I will sacrifice anything if it means—”

“Please,” Oz says, cutting him off. “Don’t make it sound all _heroic.”_ There is venom in his voice, in him; Qrow had once said Oscar’s face was an open book, and in this moment all there is is fury. “ _You_ will sacrifice? At least let us be honest with what you are doing, General— _you_ aren’t losing anything. The people left behind, however? They are going to die. They are going to lose everything _._ You are feeding them whole to the wolves and talking like you are the one being eaten, when in truth the teeth have barely skimmed your shoulder.” 

“And once again, your advice continues to be everything but _helpful_!”

“Then perhaps you should have listened to Oscar when you had the chance.”

This hits where all else had failed. For a moment Ironwood falters, mid-step, his eyes wide. He takes a breath—

And in the distance, a voice calls out. “Oscar?”

Oz takes his chance. 

He throws himself forward, cane swinging; Ironwood blocks the blow with his arm and thus is in no position to stop him when instead of following through with the attack, Oz ducks underneath his arm and sprints for the alleyways. He can hear Ironwood curse behind him, and Oz throws himself around the corner just as a gunshot rings out. 

The voice again, closer. “Oscar!?”

This time he recognizes it: Blake Belladonna, calling from below. He races for the end of the street—cut off into a ledge, one of Atlas’s many-layered areas—like Mistral, only so much worse. He goes for the ledge, looking down; on the lower rung of the city he sees her standing, looking around, alone. 

Blake Belladonna sees him too; she looks up, eyes wide. “Oscar—”

“Run!” he shouts at her. “Ironwood is here. We have to—”

“Not without you!”

These children, _honestly._ Oz backs away from the handrail. He can’t see the elevators, or any way down, and there’s no time to look. He has to jump for it. He can make the landing easy enough—

He turns just in time for Ironwood to slam into him, a sharp tackle that sends them both over the ledge. 

_No—!_

“Oscar!”

They tip over the edge into free-fall.

Oz slams out their manacled hands, and a shield snaps into place, the magic a staggering drain. He hits the ground hard and the shield shatters; he slams against the stone shoulder-first and fights to breathe even as he scrambles to their feet. Ironwood has fallen with him, and been shielded as well—he is already standing, blood scouring the side of his face. His expression is dark with fury.

“You—”

Oz doesn’t give him time to speak. He has barely minutes left—already he can feel his strength waning, aura thin from the magic toll, and he throws himself forward, cane lashing for Ironwood’s face. He blocks the first strike; Oz’s second hits him flat against the throat.

Ironwood coughs, caught off-guard. He backs away rapidly, his one good hand clutching at his throat, eyes wild and expression pained. Oz backs away, sensing rather than seeing Blake Belladonna step up to stand by their side. She places a steadying hand at their shoulder, and takes a swift second to snap the handcuff cord with her blade, freeing their hands before lifting her weapon to point at Ironwood. 

“Oz?” she says, almost a question. 

There is blood trickling down the side of Oscar’s face, and Oz winces, expression tight. “For the moment. Do you know where the others are?”

“Yes.” She glances back at him. “And we’re not alone.” Oz stills, and someone else comes up behind them, standing by Blake with a drawn sword. Weiss Schnee, her eyes dark and expression set. She levels her blade in Ironwood’s direction, and glyphs behind to form at the edge of the blade.

“ _Don’t_ come any closer,” she warns Ironwood, and Blake Belladonna shifts her sword to a gun, aiming too. “I won’t miss.”

Ironwood climbs unsteadily to his feet, hand at his throat and face pale with rage and pain. Oz stares back, unsteady and aching, the cane clutched white-knuckled in their hands. He is furious. He is tired. 

He already knows it’s useless.

Oz had wanted to stay in control for this—but he’s not even sure why, now. To face James himself, and see what he’d become? To convince the other? To argue? But all this has done is deaden him; all it has done is exhaust him. Nothing has been accomplished. Nothing changed. The line was crossed days ago, and all Oz is doing now is treading water. 

_We can’t save him._ Oscar is quiet, firm—understanding. _We can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped. And…_

And Mantle. Atlas. Salem. All knocking at the doors of the kingdom—all so much more important than this last useless attempt to convince his once-friend to choose differently.

Oz closes their eyes, aching, tired, apologetic. Oscar opens them, and stands steady.

Ice crystallizes between them and Ironwood, Weiss Schnee, threatening a wall should Ironwood dare to approach. Ironwood is regaining his breath. Oscar looks at him for a long moment, and despite everything, something bids them to wait.

Ironwood stares across at them. Even in the glare of the city’s streetlamps, his eyes reflect no light. “You would do this?” he asks, very softly. His voice rasps in his throat, still recovering from the blow. “You would leave Atlas to fall?”

Oz has nothing to say. No real words left. It is Oscar who straightens, who turns to face the General. The boy who stands, calm where Oz was angry, and looks at Ironwood for a long, solemn moment.

“Atlas already fell, I think.” Oscar’s hand curls tight around the cane. “We’re the ones trying to save it.”

It is the last straw, it seems. Ironwood lunges, hand going for the gun—and a wall of jagged ice bursts up, blocking the bullet and buying them time to run.

Blake Belladonna pushes at their shoulder. “Go!” she says, and Oscar casts one last glance at their back and then turns and sprints, Weiss Schnee following at their heels. They’ve made it back with the others, and soon they’ll be back with the group as a whole. Soon the plan can start again—start anew.

Still. For a moment, Oscar falters. For a moment they look back. How quickly it all went wrong—how quickly they left it behind. But with the ice and darkness and rising smoke of the burning city, they cannot see Ironwood at all. 

And Oz thinks—they couldn’t reach him even if they could. There is nothing more than they can do. 

The General has made his choice, and they have made theirs. 

_It is time to move on,_ he whispers, quiet. Oscar closes his eyes. 

And as one, they turn away.

**Author's Note:**

> I think Oz would find a lot of parallels in his and Ironwood's situation, especially in regard to the kind of mentality that Ironwood has fallen into-- the idea that he's the only one with all the answers. Whether Oz is right to find parallels in that or not, I think he'd see himself in those mistakes... which makes Ironwood's fall so much worse for him. How much of his anger is purely for Ironwood, and how much of it is for himself, too? There's no way to know.
> 
> I'll admit, I mainly wrote this fic for philosophy clashes. It's so fun!
> 
> [If you wanna rec this fic, you can reblog it here!!](https://izaswritings.tumblr.com/post/611871095389405184/title-tinman-philosophies-fandom-rwby) Also, if you have any questions or just want to talk, [my tumblr](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com) is always open!!
> 
> Any thoughts??


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